


To All a Good Night

by blueink3



Series: Rumor 'Verse [3]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles needs to chill out, Christmas, Erik needs to happy up, Family, Hanukkah, Kid Fic, M/M, Sean should not be allowed to bake, Someone hide the tinsel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tidings of great joy or something like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To All a Good Night

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes. I know it's August. Happy Christmukkah, four months early. 
> 
> Time stamp: December, 1963

Charles loves Christmas.

No, that’s putting it mildly. Charles _adores_ Christmas. Every light, every bow, every piece of tinsel, he fawns over them like a newborn baby and flings them about the house (or apartment, or university room) with reckless abandon.

Raven tolerates Christmas.

Which is more than she can say for Erik. He’s been brooding in the corner of whatever room they’re in for the past two weeks. Ever since he overheard Charles ask Alex what he wanted as a gift. And it’s not because Erik doesn’t celebrate the holiday – Raven knows for a fact that Charles purchased a menorah well before he started hoarding wrapping paper. No, she’s pretty sure it’s because he doesn’t celebrate _anything_ , and the more and more excited Charles gets, the more and more Erik withdraws. It’s only his adoration of this ridiculous holiday that makes Charles absolutely blind to the man he can read like the Sunday _Times._

Raven eyes her brother with some amusement and more than a little worry.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He grunts as he attempts to push one of the marble end tables towards the wall in the rec room. “Making room for the tree.” 

It’s November 29th – literally one day after Thanksgiving – and though he’s probably still full from their ridiculously large meal, he’s already moved on to the next holiday.

“Who said we’re putting the tree in here?” she asks. In the days of the elder Xaviers, the tree had always been placed in the formal sitting room, professionally decorated and on display for the constant flow of party guests that seemed to stay for the entirety of December.

“I put it to a vote,” he says, pointing to the couch where Wanda, Pietro, Daniel, Alex, and Sean sit in a row. “All those in favor of this room?”

Four hands shoot into the air. Daniel’s goes up a little belatedly, making it five.

“See? Motion passed.” Charles returns to clearing the way and Raven shakes her head.

Sometimes she can’t stand her brother when he’s like this. Most of the time, though, she finds it ridiculously endearing.

xxxxxx

“Papa, hurry up and get your coat on!”

Erik eyes his daughter over the top of the newspaper as she hurries into the room and leans on his legs.

“And why am I hurrying to put on my coat?”

Wanda practically bounces with energy as she struggles to fit her own arms into the sleeves of her jacket. “Because we’re going to pick out a tree.”

Erik feels his amusement rise, but there’s something else there on the periphery and, at the moment, he can’t quite identify it. He’s not entirely sure he wants to.

See, Erik doesn’t celebrate. Anything. But his daughter is looking at him with such excitement – excitement that he sees reflected on Charles’ face every day for the most mundane things – and he can’t help the surge of love that flares in his chest.

He folds his newspaper and leans forward, placing a kiss on her forehead. “You go ahead. I trust you to pick out a great one.”

She pouts ( _his_ daughter actually _pouts_ ), an expression she most definitely did not learn from him, and eyes him with a piercing gaze he’s pretty sure she did.

“Daddy says we all have to go.”

Erik tempers his irritation, something he never thought he’d be able to achieve before fatherhood and Charles came along. “Well, I’m sure you and your siblings and Daddy can pick out a perfectly respectable one without my input.”

Her hands go to her hips and _oh boy_ he’s in for some long teenage years. “That’s not the point.”

Hank chuckles in the doorway and Wanda runs over to him for help sorting out her sleeves. Erik stands with a weary sigh and lets the newspaper drop to the couch.

“Is he always this gung-ho about the holiday?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hank mutters and something in his tone makes Erik think he should halt the line of questioning, but he plows on undeterred.

“And why wouldn’t you know?”

Hank looks as him as if he’s grown three heads. “We didn’t have Christmas last year. Charles was still in the hospital.”

_Oh._

Erik gets his coat without another word.

xxxxxx

The Bentley and the Rolls were deemed too ostentatious for a trip to the Christmas tree lot, so half of the family piles into the Ford and the other half into the Cadillac Erik had knicked from the CIA.

"Can I drive?"

And as much as Charles trusts Raven with his life, he knows her propensity for speeding, and really, it's better if he just drives.

"Next time."

"Party pooper."

Well, he's been called worse, he muses as he straps Daniel into his car seat, and frankly, the excitement of the season has him giddy enough to be able to endure Raven's glares for an afternoon.

He ends up with Wanda, Daniel, Sean, and even Hank (whom Charles assured he could project the image of a gangly teen to all passers-by), the elder of whom get roped into playing “I Spy” with Wanda, while Daniel interjects a word here and there. He catches glimpses of Erik’s stony expression in the rearview mirror as he drives the car behind them and he can only image the trouble Pietro and Alex are getting up to.

Luckily for all involved, they arrive at the lot before Erik can cause a three-car pile-up, and before long they’re arguing over which tree is _the_ tree.

“Too short,” Charles calls as Alex points one out towards the back.

“Too short? It’s gotta be at least ten feet high!” The blond is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has.

“A high ceiling means a big tree. Look for at least thirteen feet.” He ignores the odd look Erik is shooting him as he makes his way down another aisle.

He knows how he gets. He’s not easy to deal with on most days, and he's pretty sure he's trying everyone's patience lately. But for the first time in too long, he has a family – a full one – and there are traditions he wants to rekindle and others to invent all on his own. No. Not on his own. With _Erik._ Because no tradition is worth continuing if it's not both of theirs. Just like this family. It's exciting and terrifying and thrilling and it would be _so much better_ if Erik actually _smiled_ once.

Charles checks his frustration, plasters a smile on his face, and hauls Daniel up on his hip so he can get a better look at the tree in front of them.

"What do you think?"

"Tree!" he cries, reaching for the pine needles and practically toppling out of Charles' arms.

"Yes, tree. Good job," he chuckles, keeping Erik in his peripheral vision. The other man has Pietro by the back of his shirt to keep him from tearing around the lot.

"That one!" Wanda yells as she draws up next to Charles. "It's perfect."

Even Charles has to agree, as he continues to stare at Erik.

It is pretty perfect.

xxxxxx

Alex is shocked that the tree makes it home in one piece. He and Sean had a bet that Charles’ dream of the perfect holiday centerpiece would be dashed somewhere along the side of the highway, but lo and behold, it makes its way into the Xavier Mansion rec room and, at thirteen feet, ends up being the perfect height. Who knew.

“A little to the left.”

Alex grits his teeth, face full of pine needles, as Sean sits back and shouts out random directions. How he got out of this is anyone’s guess. But Alex remembers that he’s supposed to be in the “Christmas spirit” or whatever the Prof is always going on about, and the thought of upsetting Charles overrides his desire to throttle Sean’s neck as he calls out another direction.

“It looks perfect!” Wanda cries as she bounces on the couch cushion and Erik reaches over and lifts her off without a word. “Oh Papa, I wasn’t jumping!”

“Bouncing is jumping.”

“Nuh uh.”

Erik ends the argument with a quirk of his eyebrow and Alex sorely wishes he had that kind of badassery. He remembers all too well that jumping on the furniture is a no-no in the Xavier household. He also remembers Sean’s broken bone that started the rule in the first place.

“I think it’s set,” Charles says as he strides into the room with a ridiculously frilly red apron on.

“What the hell is that?”

“Swear jar!” Pietro shouts and Alex glares at him.

“It’s not a swear.”

“It is, too!” Wanda says, nodding.

Alex turns his glare on her. “Traitor.”

“Yes, Charles, what the hell are you wearing?” Erik asks, hands on hips, and before Wanda and Pietro can even get the first syllable of “swear jar” out, Erik is handing over a $1 bill. “An apron that ridiculous needed the expletive.”

Charles points a wooden spoon in Alex’s direction: “Good job with the tree.” Then at Wanda: “What did I say about jumping on the couch?” And finally at Erik, gesturing to the apron: “Darling, it was all I could find.”

Erik cracks a devilish smile and, once again, Alex is incredibly relieved to not be the telepath in the family as Charles flushes a deep scarlet.

The Prof clears his throat, makes a vague gesture with the spoon, and begins to back out of the door. “Right… Well, I’ll just… Right.”

Erik smiles the smile that had the children running away from him on Halloween, in spite of the fact that he was _sans costume,_ as Alex shakes his head and utters quite possibly the most common phrase other than “Swear jar” and “Ow:”

“Get a room.”

xxxxxx

It’s three weeks before Christmas and Charles is elbow deep in cookie dough as Hank stumbles into the kitchen after a five-hour session fixing the bugs in Cerebro.

“I missed dinner again, didn’t I.”

Charles glances up and smiles warmly. It’s the kind of smile that somehow makes the headaches and muscle fatigue Hank garnered down in the bunker melt away.

“We called down to you. Multiple times.”

Hank sheepishly ducks his head because it’s not the first time he’s gotten so completely immersed in his work that the outside world fades away. And it certainly won’t be the last. But, as always, Charles opens the oven and produces leftovers that he’s kept there warming.

“Nothing special. Spaghetti and meatballs,” Charles says as he fixes Hank a plate.

Spaghetti and meatballs sounds _glorious._

Hank thanks Charles and tries to remember his manners before he goes diving headfirst into the delicious smelling food, but he forces himself to cut the meatballs and twirl the pasta before shoving the fork none too delicately into his mouth.

“This is _so good._ ”

Charles chuckles and returns to his bowl of batter. “Glad you enjoy it. Pietro will be pleased. He boiled the water.”

Hank wants to laugh, but his mouth is too full to do anything other than nod. But he remembers to chew before he chokes, and when his windpipe is finally clear, he gestures at the abundance of baked goods.

“Are you always in the habit of baking at midnight?”

“I’m trying to get the recipe right.” Charles’ brow creases in concentration as he stares at the bag of chocolate chips in his hand.

“For cookies?”

“My grandmother’s cookies. She made them for my father when he was younger, but my mother couldn’t be bothered with trivial things like Santa when there were guests to entertain.”

Hank is surprised by the bitterness in Charles’ voice – he’s often heard the professor speak of his past, but he’s usually able to temper his true feelings. Hank credits the late hour for the slip.

A minute too late, Charles registers what he’s said and glances up at Hank. “Apologies. That was unnecessary.”

Hank pauses with a meatball on his fork and levels a weary, but sharp gaze on the Professor. “You never have to apologize to me.” And he means it.

Charles nods once and returns his focus to the chocolate chips. Hank watches his back as closely as he’s watched him over the past three weeks. Charles likes to think he’s infallible, but Hank’s seen him at his most fragile. He remembers all too well the weeks after Cuba. The hospital rooms and the waiting. The surgeries and the hoping. The prognoses and the crying.

This Charles is different. Hank calls him “post-Erik Charles.” Perhaps “post-Erik’s return Charles” is more apt, but it’s too much of a mouthful. Yes, post-Erik Charles is more resilient than pre-Erik Charles. He doesn’t mope or sit in his office for hours on end, causing Hank, Alex, and Sean to worry that he’s actually done himself in. Of course, post-Erik Charles is also post-Daniel Charles. And frankly, Hank is convinced that the two go hand in hand – for without Daniel’s appearance, Hank might not have gone to Erik for help. And without Daniel’s strident affection for Erik, Charles’ icy defense mechanisms might not have thawed as quickly as they did. 

Yes, post-Erik/Daniel Charles (talk about a mouthful) was made of stronger stuff than pre-Erik/Daniel, yet he was still susceptible to the hurts that ran deep. That had been around longer than either of those two potential cures.

And as he stares at Charles’ back, at the man who desperately tried to recreate his grandmother’s cookies (and if the trays of discarded sweets are anything to go by, the man had tried _a lot_ ), all Hank wants to do is wrap him up in a blanket and deposit him in his bed for Erik’s safekeeping.

“You know, maybe they don’t have to be _exactly_ as your grandmother made them. I know for a fact there are stockings up in the attic that were knitted by her.” Hank shrugs as Charles turns. “Maybe they can be your grandmother’s contribution to the holiday and you can, I don’t know…” he gestures to the many cookies surrounding him. “Just go with one of these.”

Charles tilts his head and it always unnerves Hank when the Professor looks at him like that. Not like he’s reading his mind, but like he’s looking right through him, down to his very soul.

“You know,” Charles begins as he sits down at the table next to Hank and hands him a cookie, “you’re a brilliant man.”

Hank ducks his head. “Pot calling the kettle black there, Professor.”

“No I mean it,” Charles argues as he grabs a cookie for himself. “You’re sensible. While I have a habit of getting fixated on the little things, you manage to see the bigger picture.”

Charles smiles and bites into his cookie, an altogether boyish gesture that has Hank wondering if the post-Erik/Daniel Charles is all that different from little boy Charles.

The Professor sighs and glances around at the trays of cookies. “So what do we do with all of these?”

Hank glances at his watch. “Sean should be down in a couple of hours. Chances are, these’ll be gone by morning.”

Charles’ eyes light up as if he’s more thrilled that the cookies won’t go to waste than concerned about Sean’s recreational drug use.

xxxxxx

The house is oddly quiet and Erik takes that as a sign that either everyone has gone out or they’re all dead. It’s either one or the other, because there’s no way in hell that someone somewhere is not yelling, crying, fighting, laughing, or screaming.

He’s combed the first floor and he knows for a fact that Raven has taken Alex and Sean out Christmas shopping. Hank is currently in the bunker, tinkering with Cerebro, which leaves Charles and, perhaps slightly more worrisome, the children unaccounted for.

Erik takes the stairs two at a time as he reaches the second floor and only when he’s a third of the way down the hall, does he hear a giggle followed by a “shhh.”

Frowning, he quietly makes his way to the nursery and peeks through the crack in the door as Pietro’s voice floats through.

“You’re saying it wrong.”

“No, I’m not!” _Wanda._ Erik can’t see her, but there’s only one person in the house that’s mastered that tone of indignation.

“You are too! It’s _Mac-_ ca-bees. Not Mac- _ca_ -bees.”

The word makes Erik’s pulse jump and, before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s pushed the door open with a creak to find Wanda and Pietro lying on the floor, each with a book in front of them, while Daniel sits, playing with a puzzle a few feet away.

“Children?”

“Hi, Papa,” they chorus (“Vati!” Daniel gushes).

“What are you doing?”

“Reading about the Maccabees.”

Erik feels as though his blood is roaring in his ears and it’s all he can do to not just give into the desire to sit where he stands. Right now, he’s not sure he’d be able to manage it with any amount of grace.

“And why are you reading about the Maccabees?” he croaks out.

“Because Daddy wants us to know why we’re lighting the candle tonight. It’s December 10th. The first day of Hanukkah. We’ll light one candle tonight and two tomorrow – ”

“Until all eight are lit!” Pietro finishes and Wanda punches him in the shoulder.

“I was telling the story!”

Erik doesn’t know what to say. He can’t even muster a “Don’t hit.” His heart manages a beat he’s not sure his body can sustain as he stares at the children in front of him, _his_ children, reading about something he had buried oh so long ago. This is clearly Charles’ doing – it has his good-deed fingerprints all over it.

“Papa, are you okay?”

His focus returns to the kids to find all three looking at him with concern.

“You look like you’re gonna puke,” Pietro offers.

“Gross,” Wanda chimes in as Daniel toddles over and plops down in Erik’s lap, pressing his hands on Erik’s clammy cheeks. They feel cool and comforting and he leans into the boy’s touch.

“We’re gonna put the candles in a… me-… a men-”

“A menorah,” Erik whispers and Pietro nods.

“Right. A menorah.”

Erik tightens his grip on Daniel as the little boy leans his head against Erik’s shoulder. It’s almost his nap time and he should shoo the older children out so he can put Daniel down, but some part of him, some part that he hasn’t connected with in some time, doesn’t want to interrupt this.

“Keep reading about the Maccabees,” he finally says as he stands and hoists Daniel onto his hip. “I’m going to put him down for a nap and have a chat with your father.”

“Uh oh,” Pietro mutters.

“Did Daddy do a bad thing?”

Erik doesn’t say anything as he turns from the room, but he can’t help but overhear Wanda’s, “Daddy’s toast,” as he shuts the door.

Daniel goes down in one of the spare rooms without a fuss, and as soon as the door is shut on his sleeping son, Erik broadcasts loudly to ensure no doubt that Charles will hear him, wherever he is.

_Our room. Now._

_I thought you’d never ask,_ floats back.

_No, Charles. This is not the fun kind of “Our room. Now.”_

_Oh._

And if Erik hadn’t been so furious, he would have found the tone of disappointment adorable.

xxxxxx

Charles takes the stairs slowly. He knows what this is about. Or at least he thinks he knows what this is about. He had skimmed Erik’s surface thoughts when he called out to him, but Erik shut him down swiftly and without hesitation.

He should have asked. He knows he should have asked. But he wanted it to be a surprise, no matter how many times his conscience told him it was going to come back and bite him in the arse.

Before he knows it, he’s standing outside their bedroom door and, really, he could have sworn there were more stairs than that. Delaying the inevitable will just make this worse, so with a deep breath and an impending sense of doom, he pushes the door open to find Erik standing at the window with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Let me explain,” Charles begins, but Erik holds up a hand, silencing all excuses.

“You should have consulted with me.”

“I know.”

Erik spins around and Charles is taken aback by the anguish he sees etched on his face. “Then why? Why teach my children about a God that betrayed me? About a religion that got me torn from my home! That took my parents from me!”

“Your religion didn’t do that,” Charles quietly says and he knows he’s wading into dangerous waters. He hardly ever discusses _that_ with Erik and when he does, it’s to offer comfort or solace. Not to argue. Never to argue. “Evil men with hate in their black hearts did that.”

Erik shakes his head and turns back around. “Charles Xavier. Always the optimist,” he spits out and the words almost physically hurt.

Charles takes a step closer, but thinks better of it and retreats once more to the door.

“They’re my children, too. And I want them to know where they come from – who they are – and I want them to be proud of it. Just as I am proud of you.” He turns, thinking he’s said all he’s really needed to say, but the words still come. And they’re words that have fueled this whole holiday crusade over the past few weeks.

“Some traditions are worth keeping, worth passing down. And I plan on doing that, now that I have people to pass them down to.” 

He turns without another word and manages to make it to the hallway before the first tear threatens to fall.

xxxxxx

Erik isn’t sure how long he remains staring out the window at nothing in particular. Hank and Raven had strung white twinkle lights around the trees dotting the back terrace, and they seem to mock him with their giddy glow.

 _Charles should have asked. He should have… He…_ Erik sighs and places his hands on the window frame. _He shouldn’t have been such an optimistic, loveable idiot._

He doesn’t want Wanda and Pietro to feel separate. To feel more different than they already do. It’s one thing to feel like outsiders against the rest of the world, but to feel alienated in their own home… It won’t be tolerated. It’s one thing to be united under the “mutant” banner, but when you start dividing people into categories like “Jewish” and “Christian,” where does the dissection end?

It must be dinner time by the time Erik pries himself away from his position – he can smell the food wafting to the second floor. There’s something familiar about the scent and, before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he’s making his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where’s he met by utter and complete chaos.

Wanda and Pietro are kneeling precariously on stools as Hank shouts directions from a recipe book at Sean, Alex, and Raven who are doing something dubious with every single appliance the kitchen as to offer.

Daniel, thank god, is strapped safely in his highchair.

“Dude, that’s for this pot, not that one,” Sean says, grabbing a cup of chopped onions from Alex and dumping them into one of four pots on the stove.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Swear jar!” Wanda and Pietro immediately shout and even Daniel manages something that sounds vaguely like “Swear!”

“We’re making dinner,” Alex says, looking startled at Erik’s tone and brandishing his spoon somewhat defensively. “Relax, there’s a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

“You screw up my kosher brisket and I will kill you,” Raven threatens, pointing a pair of sharp tongs in Sean’s direction. “You’re supposed to let it marinate. Leave it alone.”

“How many eggs for the varnishke?” Alex asks stirring something that was beginning to steam.

Hank looks at the cookbook in his hands and promptly announces, “Just one.”

It’s almost comical, this scene of domestic destruction, but Erik’s voice has gotten lost somewhere between his larynx and his lips as he stares at his family in front of him. Sean’s boasting that these are going to be the best latkes anyone’s ever had, while the children seem too busy salivating over the jelly donut holes Raven made for dessert.

He hasn’t seen food like this since Rosh Hashanah, 1943.

“Where’s Charles?” he finally manages and Alex is the only one to hear his quiet, pleading question, but he only shrugs.

“Haven’t seen him. Which is weird, because he planned this whole thing.”

And immediately, Erik feels like the biggest asshole on the planet.

Charles, _his_ Charles, did this for him. For them and, more importantly, for their children.

_“Some traditions are worth keeping, worth passing down. And I plan on doing that, now that I have people to pass them down to.”_

Erik sprints out of the kitchen even as Sean pulls out a butcher knife, which is quite possibly the scariest thing Erik’s seen all year. And Erik’s seen some scary shit.

“Charles!” He passes the study and the library, sticking his head briefly in each. He runs to the end of the hall and up the back stairs, making a beeline to their room, which he finds empty, and then to the nursery, which is equally so. “Charles?”

 _Down here,_ finally floats up and Erik takes the stairs two at time on his way back down, shocked when he reaches the bottom that he hasn’t broken an ankle.

Of course Charles is in the rec room with the lights off, staring up at the glow that the newly decorated Christmas tree emits. He sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning back on his hands, and he doesn’t look up when the telltale _creak_ of the door gives Erik’s arrival away.

All at once, Erik wants to smack him upside the head and wrap him up in his arms. Despite the temptation of the former, he settles for the latter as he pads across the rug and sits down behind Charles, sliding his legs on either side of the smaller man’s hips and tugging him back until he’s flush against Erik’s chest.

Charles is stiff at first but eventually he relaxes, and they stay like that until the silence seems to heal the superficial wounds.

“I didn’t mean – ” Charles begins, but Erik cuts him off.

“Thank you.” He holds Charles tighter across his chest and squeezes. “Thank you so much.”

Charles’ hand comes up and gently brushes across the back of Erik’s clasped hands.

“I should have asked,” he still says, but Erik can only shake his head and hope that Charles feels the gesture. 

He had buried that part of his life down so deep that he thought it too difficult and not worth unearthing. That was his first excuse. His second was alienating Wanda and Pietro for being different from the other children, but a flimsy excuse it was, because of course Charles wouldn’t limit the lessons taught to only those with Jewish blood. Of course everyone would participate and, of course, because Charles had planned it so brilliantly, the image of his entire family bringing this tradition to fruition somehow managed to jump-start that dormant part of Erik’s soul.

“I love you,” is all Erik says in return. “I love you for being you and I love you for doing this.”  

“I love you too, but I would never want you to think I was forcing you into enjoying the holiday.”

Erik squeezes tighter still and frankly he’s surprised Charles can still breathe with the grip he has on him. “I always enjoy things when I’m with you.” He releases one half of his grip and uses his finger to tilt Charles’ head back so he can look in his eyes. “Always.”

It’s Charles that initiates the kiss and Erik is more than okay with that. They sit on the floor for a while longer, watching the multicolored lights with Erik occasionally peppering the back of Charles’ neck with feather-light kisses.

“How were the children doing?” Charles finally murmurs.

“Last time I checked, Sean had a butcher knife.” 

“Oh sweet Jesus.”

Shockingly, the fire extinguisher is only used once that night. Thankfully, Charles bought backup Hanukkah candles.

xxxxxx

Christmas Eve comes a mere six days after the end of Hanukkah and the children are so wired on sugar and excitement that it takes not only Erik and Charles to wrestle them into bed, but also Raven, Alex, and Hank.

Wanda runs down stairs for what seems like the hundredth time in her fleece footie pajamas to quadruple check that the cookies and milk for Santa, and the carrots for the reindeer, are still sitting by the fireplace.

It’s only Erik’s threat that Santa won’t come if they’re awake that gets them anywhere near the second floor. Sean is nearly as bad as he bounces around the house singing “Jingle Bells” as loud as he possibly can. Eventually, the children run around until they literally pass out under the tree. Charles takes Wanda and Erik Pietro as they trudge up the stairs and deposit their little elves in their respective beds.

The evening had been spent talking of the stories Charles, Raven, Alex, Hank, and Sean grew up with: stories of wise men and bright stars, of an inn with no room and a baby born in a manger. If Hanukkah was any indication, Charles is the kind of parent to express the true meaning of Christmas, beyond the presents and the decorations and the cookies. Which is somewhat amusing considering Charles himself has been practically vibrating with the excitement of it all.

Somewhere on the other side of the attic, Sean has moved on from “Jingle Bells” to “Silver Bells,” and Erik coughs as he swipes a spider-web out of his face.  

“Do you think McCone would revoke the school’s certification if he found out I knocked my students out?” Charles asks as they smuggle hidden presents to the first floor.

“Not if you erase it from his mind. And if knocking Sean out means ceasing that horrible noise, then by all means,” Erik grunts as he handles a particularly heavy box. “What on earth is this?”

Charles checks the tag and smiles. “Can’t you tell? Metal discs for Alex. For you to fly and Alex to shoot.”

“So that’s all I am to you now? A glorified clay-pigeon shooter?”

“Who happens to be very, very handsome,” Charles replies, placing a chaste peck on Erik’s chin.

Sean’s voice breaks on a high note and Raven’s yell echoes through the rafters: “Sean, shut up!”

Charles sighs and smiles. “Don’t you just love the holidays?”

Erik snorts and levitates Alex’s box down the attic stairs, getting a good view of Charles’ back muscles as the man hefts two large presents himself.

Erik knows it’ll be a late night, and he knows the children will be up at some ungodly hour tomorrow, but he also knows that he’s never been as happy as he is at this moment, placing his children’s presents under the tree as “It’s a Wonderful Life” plays on the television in the background.

He used to hate this movie. He thought it presented an unrealistic look at life, because not everyone got a George Bailey ending, but as he stares at Raven spiking some eggnog, at Sean finally humming on pitch as Alex taps out a rudimentary version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on the piano, and at Hank climbing up a ladder to place the star on top of the tree, he finally thinks that, though he might not have George Bailey’s luck, he certainly has Charles Xavier’s love.

And frankly, that’s all he really needs. 


End file.
